Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 
Midnight At The Lost & Found

Every now and again I find myself in a quiet, contemplative state. Sometimes it has something to do with the tequila I’ve drank, sometimes not. What you’re reading was neither induced nor influenced by tequila, or any of its familiars, and I think that is just as well. It’s roughly midnight in my end of the world, though the clock in my Little Bit Of Nowhere will argue otherwise (the wonders of cut-and-paste from disk to harddrive), and I am contemplating my life.

Something has gone horribly awry within it.

I can’t exactly complain all that much about my life, since perspective is everything. And, comparatively speaking, there are people in this world who are far worse off than me. My problems pale considerably when lined up with theirs. I am ever mindful of this, which I guess shows that while I’m crazy more often than not, at least I’m still sane.

And yet, much like Miss Clavelle in a Madeline book, I feel that something is not quite right. It follows me down the streets I walk like some shadowy paranoia, and seems to hover somewhere in the forgotten corners of my room. There is some aspect of my life, or maybe even the greater whole of it, that is proving troublesome, and it is marring my thoughts and experiences.

Perhaps the name I could give is this: dissatisfaction. And yet, I cannot necessarily say I am dissatisfied with my life. That is too general, too self-centred, and in all honesty too whiny a statement. What I think my current problem is, is a dissatisfaction at what I am doing with my life, or have done thus far.

Everybody needs some sort of purpose. Those who feel they have a purpose, be it a short or long-term one, thusly have goals to set and achieve. To have purpose is to move forward in your life. Hell, with a purpose you can even move backward as you fail to reach it. Even that is something; it’s a direction.

I think I’m lacking purpose right now. Or else I had purpose, and like a set of car keys I have somehow lost my purpose amidst the clutter of goings-on that I must contend with. A shame I can’t look between the cushions of my couch and find my purpose.

When I look back to see what it is I have accomplished in life, I cannot find all that much. At least, not in ways which are personally significant to me. Upon greater scrutiny I have come across the most damning thing of all: I don’t think I have ever really set any goals for myself to accomplish. Hence the lack of any sort of finishing, since I never made a point of saying “This is the beginning, and an end must be found, be it good or bad.”

As a result I’m stagnating in the if-only’s and come-what-may’s. I’m not moving at all, and the nothingness that it is, is proving deadly. The simpler things in life that bring me joy are losing their colours, I grow increasingly restless, and I find contentment in nothing. I am suffering the attention span of a gnat.

Hardest hit is my love of writing.

I’m staring right now at the cover of a mix CD I burned myself a few months ago; the image is one I grabbed from a fanart site on the web somewhere. I am looking at a large wolf laying on the grass. Sleeping peacefully against the wolf’s side is a young woman with long, flowing blonde hair. She is wearing a beautiful, white wedding dress and a diaphanous veil that reaches down to her feet. In her left hand is a handgun, and the lower part of her wedding dress is spattered red with blood that is definitely not hers.

I could write a story about them. In fact, I have something similar yet wholly my own that has already found its way into a tale I have been crafting. I want to write a story about them, and also finish the one I have already started. Yet it’s growing harder to find reason to carry on, let alone finish. I am losing my sense of being and/or identity, and with it all senses of joy and direction.

Some could argue that writing is my purpose, that it is both my gift and my raison d’etre. I would have no contention with that, and most of me agrees and believes that. Yet shifting my mindset from something that has been simply a hobby into something that is a profession is a task easier said than accomplished. If that unto itself was not enough, there are other doubts and scattered shades of darkness I must face in the meantime that are, in a way, totally unrelated to my writing.

To overcome them requires planning. To achieve the planning requires resolve. And to deepen the resolve requires a purpose. I think it’s about time I rediscovered the purpose I’m pretty sure I once had. Or else it’s time to discover the purpose I never thought I really needed.

I have no idea what that purpose might be, actually, but I’ll let you know once I do.


Today’s Lesson: while it is never healthy to always think of yourself right away as the cause of the problem you’re in, it is always good to keep your name in the list of potential causes. Half the time you are your own problem, and your own undoing.


posted by Phillip at 7:32 AM